Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Editor's Note: The following essay was written in fulfillment of the open response exercise for week 1 of Harvard University's month-long Massive Open Online Course (MOOC) Poetry in America: Dickinson currently being offered by edX.

The Dickinson Dialectic

Steven Wittenberg Gordon

Emily Dickinson’s
choice not to choose a “final” version of some of her poems both empowered and
disempowered her as poet when her works were brought to print.This dialectic has become more apparent
over time as more editions of her work and the manuscripts themselves have
become available to readers.The
different versions of Dickinson’s poems disempower her as a poet when editors
choose one version over another at the risk of choosing the “wrong”
version.However, the fact that a
choice of versions must be contemplated by editors forces the editors, at least
the conscientious ones, to examine Dickinson’s handwritten manuscripts
carefully--the definition of empowerment as a poet.

Likewise, the
more “cryptic” elements of Dickinson’s works both enhance and detract from
Dickinson’s poetic autonomy.On
the one hand, Dickinson took to her grave the reasons for and intended meanings
of her dashes, capitals, and punctuation choices.On its face, this impossibility of being understood for
certain by anyone but Dickinson herself enhances Dickinson’s poetic
autonomy.However, by the same
token, the mystery stimulates her readers and editors to dig deeply into what
the possible reasons for and meanings of her “cryptic” elements might be to a
degree that would likely not be undertaken otherwise.This increased scrutiny can only detract from Dickinson’s
poetic autonomy.

Poet's Notes:
“Companionship” is part of my
current work-in-progress, a novel-length heroic fantasy poetry sequence. This
poem takes place after King Xau's first war and is meant to express the
tenderness between Xau and his wife Shazia, a tenderness that extends to their
baby son once he is born. Several other poems from the sequence may be read at http://www.thesignofthedragon.com.

Editor’s Note: What lovely imagery here! The poet cleverly uses references to
all five senses to enhance the emotional impact of the piece.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to announce that the Poet
of the Week for the week of March 29, 2015 will be Mary Soon Lee.A poem by Ms. Lee will be featured daily
in the Review from March 30 - April
4, 2015.

Mary Soon Lee was
born and raised in London, but has lived in Pittsburgh for the past twenty
years. Her poetry credits include Atlanta
Review, Ideomancer, and Star*Line. Her poem "Interregnum" won the 2014 Rhysling Award for Best Long
Poem. She has an antiquated
website at http://www.marysoonlee.com.

Poet's/Editor's Note: Barack Obama is a self proclaimed Constitutional scholar. It is unthinkable that he does not know that he would be a "natural-born" citizen by virtue of being born to his American mother, regardless of where his birth took place. Since Obama has not once made that argument, it is safe to conclude that he knowingly allowed the country to become embroiled in a silly controversy in order to make his birther opponents look silly. The liberal media, happy to make their ideological enemies look silly, silently went along with the charade.

The birthers and their Republican supporters are equally to blame. It is unthinkable that not a single one of them knew the truth of the matter according to Constitutional law. Not even the Heritage Foundation has spoken up on behalf of the Constitution in this matter. Why? Politics. They disagree with Obama's politics and are willing to support any silly cause that might have hurt Obama's chances for re-election or that might lead to his impeachment and removal from office.

Isn't it interesting that Obama's first opponent, John McCain, was not born in the United States either? Little was made of that by either side. Even more interesting is how Ted Cruz's birthplace is being handled. The birther Republicans were quick to change their birther tune (and experience/qualification point of view--but that would be a subject for another essay) when someone with whom they agreed ideologically decided to run for president.

Even more interesting is that the liberal media and Obama administration have not pointed out this recent birther Republican hypocrisy. One would think that they would pounce on it. I guess they did the political math and decided that it is too late for Obama and/or the liberal media to make a Constitutionally scholarly argument, as doing so at this point would betray their ongoing collusion in what amounts to a practical joke.

So, as my poem concludes, "Shame on US." Shame on the United States and every citizen it in--except for me.

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Songs of Eretz Poetry
Review is
pleased to present “red light” by John Reinhart.One-time
beginner yo-yo champion, state fiddle and guitar champion, tinkerer, and
certifiable eccentric, John Reinhart lives in the Weird, between now and never,
collecting and protecting discarded treasures, and whistling combinations of
every tune he knows. His poetry has recently been published in: Apeiron
Review, Black Heart Magazine, FishFood & LavaJuice Magazine, Liquid
Imagination, Star*Line, and Vocabula
Review. You can listen to him fiddle at http://reinhartbrothers.bandcamp.com/.

red light

John Reinhart

stop, check the rearview--

unlike Snow White’s
stepmother, I saw not

myself, but like her mirror,

my rearview reflected a
gorgeous visage:

my life’s love,

my one and only true soul mate
long lost better half

checking her lipstick in her
own rearview,

a comfortable yet cozy six
feet behind my bumper,

a safe and reasonable distance
according to driver’s ed

her car was clean, six
cylinders, not ostentatious

with good gas mileage
according to the sticker at the lot, practical

dependable strong loyal
independent spontaneous when necessary

attractive a good listener -
all the same characteristics she

would see in me and many I
value in a woman, this woman

the one behind the wheel
behind my wheel stopped, as if by

chance or fate at the same red
beacon of universal karmic law

in the same effervescence of
diesel fumes CO2 eroding

asphalt and anxious morning
coffee please-don’t-let-me-be-late

sweat of the modern workforce
wage roundup

she glowed like the check
engine light on my dash,

conjuring images of Thursday
nights turned Fridays out sick

oh, the collaboration of all
those features in her

face, forming the look of the
girl next door or the

house one over or the one who
could have been an actress

or a model or a porn star or
maybe one of those waitresses

you meet in the corner bistros
with good food and decent prices

who are probably working in
the family biz but just until they make the break

not a waitress you know for
only ten minutes but one who sits

down for a drink during lunch
rush, ignores the boss the clock the customers,

gazes into her cup reading the
entrails of foam then quits quietly,

walks out with dignity, arm in
arm out of work

without a care into sunlight
into the sunset into

the rest of her life into the
end credits into the car behind

mine at the red light on 17th and Sheridan
where our lives

meet, mingle, and progress
instantaneously into eternity

wedded by the rearview mirror,
never looking back,

writing our futures
intuitively

we make love with our eyes
with our eyes closed on the beach in the elevator in the backseat of my car
just out of view of the rearview mirror on the floor on the table, at red
lights while traffic

Poet’s
Notes: Is hindsight
really 20/20? Not if the future is behind us.

The idea of
holding infinity in the palm of your hand is the beauty of Romantic
transcendence caught in the web of modern conceit. There is more than a little
bit of self-mockery in this poem, as a Romantic, a man, and a devoted husband
and father, interlaced with commentary about expectations, dreams, and the
Mitty-fold potential of the infinite instants that compose the nine-to-five
countdown to Taps.

Keats was
exceptional at elegantly capturing this sense of eternal moments. I tried to
capture a similar sentiment with the exception that not only is this a
fictitious moment, but the fictitious dream never came to be, and the poet
whose head we enter is in fact holding up traffic. What a nuisance!

I composed
the basis for this poem in my head during my daily commute, which takes me past
17th and Sheridan twice daily six days a week. When I sat down to write this, I
poured in every commuting image and sound, and then punctuated with deadly
seriousness and sardonic humor, both of which are in easy reach when I ponder
early morning traffic.

Editor’s
Note: The most beautiful and enduring
possibilities in life can be denied in a moment--in the duration of a red
light. What a thought-provoking and moving poetic conceit! The
final four stanzas, where the narrator snaps out of his reverie, hit me like a
bucket of ice water to the face, with the final stanza, whether interpreted as
foreshadowing or not, leaving me stunned. "red light" first appeared in the November 2014 issue of Songs of Eretz Poetry E-zine.

Friday, March 27, 2015

Songs of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Mortifying Thoughts” by J.
J. Steinfeld.Mr. Steinfeld is a
Canadian fiction writer, poet, and playwright who lives on Prince Edward Island.
He has published fifteen books, along with five chapbooks, including: Disturbing
Identities (Stories, Ekstasis Editions), Anton Chekhov Was Never in
Charlottetown (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Should the Word Hell Be
Capitalized? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Curiosity to Satisfy and Fear
to Placate (Short-Fiction Chapbook, Mercutio Press), Would You Hide Me? (Stories,
Gaspereau Press), An Affection for Precipices (Poetry, Serengeti Press),
Where War Finds You (Poetry Chapbook, HMS Press), Misshapenness
(Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), A Fanciful Geography (Poetry Chapbook,
erbacce-press), A Glass Shard and Memory (Stories, Recliner Books), and Identity
Dreams and Memory Sounds (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions). His short
stories and poems have appeared in numerous anthologies and periodicals
internationally, and over forty of his one-act plays and a handful of
full-length plays have been performed in Canada and the United States.

Mortifying Thoughts

J. J. Steinfeld

sure is mortifying

when you turn around

and a snarling wraith

sucker punches you

sure is mortifying

when you start praying

and you hear laughter

from above

sure is mortifying

when you meet God

and are mistaken for a
character

who has lost his way

sure is mortifying

when you are asked

to spell mortifying and
you get

two of the letters wrong

sure is mortifying

when you meet yourself

and neither one of you

has anything profound to
say

Poet’s Notes: First of all, let me say it sure is
mortifying to be asked to write about a poem written over four years ago.
Second of all, I’ll hop into my Muse’s poetic time machine and attempt to
describe the formation of "Mortifying Thoughts." I was taking a
late-night walk through an outwardly tranquil and orderly neighborhood, my
questioning, wandering thoughts hovering between the absurd and the
existential, the meaningless and the meaningful, the senseless and the senseful,
when a group of disorderly words, not all that pleased with my intrusive
presence, seemed to jump at me from all metaphoric sides. I began to gather
these words while attempting to reconcile my late-night contradictory thoughts.
By the time I returned home, "Mortifying Thoughts" was formed in my
mind, and I quickly wrote out the words. Then the real existential grappling
began, as I shaped those disorderly words into an orderly albeit mortifying
poem.

Editor’s Note: I love the sardonic humor in this poem, accented
by the poet’s adroit use of anaphora. “Mortifying Thoughts” was
first published in the poetry chapbook A Fanciful Geography by
J. J. Steinfeld (erbacce-press, Liverpool, UK, 2010) and reprinted in the
August 2014 issue of Songs of Eretz
Poetry Review.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

Songs
of Eretz Poetry Review is pleased to present “Kitchen Carcharodon” by
Robert Borski.Although he did not start
writing poetry until he was well into his sixth decade, Robert Borski has published
over 200 poems, a good portion of which have appeared in: Asimov's,
Dreams & Nightmares, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, and Star*Line,
as well as a collection from Dark Regions Press, Blood Wallah. He
has been nominated for the Rhysling Award nine times and the Dwarf Stars Award
thrice, and still lives in Stevens Point, Wisconsin, the town of his birth,
where he works for the local university.

Kitchen
Carcharodon

Robert
Borski

Last year sharks killed
nine people globally--a mere driblet compared to defective toasters, which
killed 781.

--AP
Newswire

No
primordial killing machine

designed

by
nature could be this singularly

harmless
looking, with neither fins

nor
teeth,

its
long black cord functioning not

so
much as a tail -- to balance

or
locomote --

but
as lifeline to the sleekly-built

appliance
with its open gills of

chrome,
spring

jaw,
and burnt-crumb breath.

And
yet despite these deficiencies,

it
swims,

if
statically, in a current strong

enough
to carry away an Olympian,

its
boxlike

form
dictated by function, if not

the
fetished mind of Martha Stewart.

Hidden
in

plain
sight, usually in the cove or bay

of a
kitchen, it waits to strike down

the
unwary,

the
unsuspecting innocent

who,
hungry for a pastry or bagel,

but
distracted

by
the menialness of the task,

does
not notice the frayed cord,

blissfully
placing

his
hand too close to the open slits

or
the shiny body of the appliance

itself,

anticipating
the sweet butter-and-jam

taste
in his mouth, the delicious chew

of
crust,

completely
oblivious as to what lays

in
wait for him, deadlier than any

shark,

even
if able to make perfect toast.

Poet’s
Notes: Every
year, usually just before summer begins and real news is somewhat slow, the
cable networks are wont to trot out one of their more staid fright stories--how
a shark somewhere in the world has dared to take a bite out of some swimmer or
surfer. Small matter that we are trespassing on their milieu or that sharks
might confuse us for food. Nor will you ever hear a talking head tell you how
relatively few people are killed by sharks annually or that you're much more
likely to die from a bee sting, lightning, or trying to retrieve a stuck
English Muffin from your toaster.

So
to be fair to the shark--the networks' primordial killing machine inching ever
closer to shore, hoping against hope for a taste of human sushi--I wrote
"Kitchen Carcharodon." In terms of challenges, it also does what many
of my poems attempt to do: compares and contrasts two disparate subjects, and
then show how much alike they really are. In addition, though not my
first poem accepted--Marge Simon, then-editor of Star*Line, had
previously accepted two--because Strange Horizons had a faster
turnaround time, "Kitchen Carcharodon" was my first published poem
and so retains a special place in my heart. And just for the record,
while I wouldn't think twice about stepping into the ocean, every time I make
toast I do so with caution, trepidation, and maintaining some distance.

Editor’s
Note: The
ironic humor here is, well, delicious. “Kitchen Carcharodon” was
first published in Strange Horizons, and was reprinted in the
November 2013 issue of Songs of Eretz
Poetry E-zine.

Animal Behavior Lowell Jaeger "Guest" Ink on Paper By J. Artemus Gordon She’d sputtered her droppings on the living ro...

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